A few years back, while sitting in the barbershop waiting for a shearing, a local farmer interrupted a conversation about turkey hunting with an interesting observation.

“You turkey hunters,” he began, apparently including me in a club for which, at that point, I had not yet earned a membership card. “You all think you’ve got to dress up in camouflage and hide. It’s not nearly as hard as you think. And I can prove it.”

I instantly perked up, waiting for the nugget of advice that would make me an honest-to-goodness turkey hunter.

Up until then (or up until Wednesday, truth be told), I was merely a guy who occasionally dressed up like a tree, woke far too early in order to lean up against another tree, and struggled to make vaguely turkey-esque noises with a variety of calling devices.

“You want a turkey? Just go out with me and sit on the back of my tractor,” the farmer said. “As soon as I start plowing, I’ve got a parade of turkeys following me … you can take your pick!”

Seeing as how I have neither a farm nor a tractor, his methods were out of my reach. So I spent a few years surveying my deer-hunting grounds during the spring, looking for signs of turkeys that might, if I was lucky, respond to my calls.

I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this before, but the woods I hunt during deer season are full of deer … except during deer season.

Apparently, the deer have shared their evasion tactics with the turkeys. All summer long, I see turkeys. And during the monthlong turkey season, I see nothing but deer.

It’s like the two species are partners in some kind of forest timeshare, with each heading for the condo on Key West at the appropriate time.

This year (desperate, and still turkey-less) I punted, and opted to hunt a small piece of land where, I assumed, turkeys had never seen a hunter, and where (I also assumed) a determined guy like myself might be able to surprise an inexperienced gobbler.

Never having actually surprised a gobbler with my own hunting talents, that was a bit of a stretch … but a guy’s got to dream.

So on Wednesday morning, I dressed up like a tree, found a similar tree to lean against, and began hunting.

On my own. On land that I chose to hunt. And with nothing but my own calling skills standing between me and my bird … if any birds actually lived there.

That, of course, was the problem. I had spent so much time scouting for turkeys in places where the turkeys weren’t, I had no time to actually scout the place I suddenly hoped turkeys were.

And since all the veteran hunters – guys that dress up like trees even when they’re not going turkey hunting – told me that in order to have good success, you’ve got to “put the turkeys to bed,” I knew I had a problem.

Turkeys roost in trees, you see. And if you can figure out where they’re sleeping, all you have to do (theoretically) is set up nearby early the next morning and hope for the best.

Me? When I woke up at 3:30 a.m. to put on my best tree suit and head afield, I was lucky I even knew where I was sleeping.

Forget about Tom Turkey.

As it turned out, Wednesday was a glorious morning.

Well, eventually it was glorious.

At first, it was dark … and wet … and cold.

But then, around sunrise, an owl hooted. Another owl hooted back.

And somewhere, out in the woods, a turkey gobbled his own greeting.

I love turkey hunting (except for the part when I spend time hunting and scouting turkey-less locations). And that first tell-tale gobble of the morning may be the biggest reason why.

All of a sudden, I was not just a fool dressed up like a shrub. All of a sudden, I was hunting. And if I wanted that turkey to come over to visit, I had to do all the things I’d tried to learn over the past several years.

He gobbled. I yelped. (For the record, I’m not all that great with a diaphragm mouth call, but I’m turning into a pretty passable yelper).

He gobbled back, and was obviously closing the gap. I yelped back … more quietly … just like the instruction manual told me to. “Chock. Chock. Chock.”

That, apparently, is turkey for “Hey, big boy …”

And that, apparently, worked just fine.

For several minutes, I scanned the woods with my binoculars, watching for movement. Eventually, I saw what I was looking for.

One bird, working its way away from me.

And one bird, a tom in full strut, heading directly for my decoys.

Gobble … yelp … gobble … yelp.

We had quite a conversation, old Tom and I. Even before he stopped, broadside, 17 yards away, my hunt had been a success.

Unfortunately, getting a 10-minute gander at Tom’s impressive feathers was the highlight.

Tom was obviously a male bird. He spoke like a male, and postured like a male, and strutted and flared out his tail like a male.

But in Maine, you can’t just shoot any male.

You’ve got to shoot a bird sporting a beard.

And mine had none.

Perhaps he lost his in a fight. Perhaps the heavy rain matted it to his chest, and I couldn’t see it. Perhaps he’s just exceptionally well groomed.

But the fact remained: I couldn’t see his beard … and because of that, I couldn’t raise my shotgun and shoot.

Which left us – me, dressed like a tree, him, gobbling like a fool – in a bit of a stalemate.

We spoke a bit more over the ensuing minutes, as I took the opportunity to practice my calling in what was essentially a catch-and-release hunting scenario.

He’d walk away, frustrated, and gobble loudly. I’d yelp … softly … and he’d turn around and walk back into the clearing.

Eventually, he tired of me, and vanished into the woods, his passage marked by occasional gobbles.

And after his voice had finally faded for good, and I became convinced that there weren’t any other nearby gobblers, I stood, packed my gear, and headed for home … and a nap.

No, I haven’t shot a turkey yet. Haven’t even shot at one.

But I’m talking to them now. They’re talking back.

And that’s a pretty good start.

jholyoke@bangordailynews.net

990-8214